End of the Rainbow
by LondonBelow
Summary: Angel finds a pot of gold. oneshot


This was written for speedrent challenge 215, in which either Angel or Benny found a pot of gold.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

It was innocuous enough, a small bit of green plastic shaped into a bucket with a curling lip up at the top and a fat little belly at the bottom, tucked away under the sink, behind the pipe with the drooping U-bend. She pushed aside a tube of Comet and a bottle of liquid drain cleaner, a worn scrubbing brush and an old sponge. The bucket was all that was left.

She shook a few spiders off her hand and wiped cobwebs onto her faded denim skirt. Then she hooked her fingers beneath the rim of the bucket and pulled it out of the shadows towards her.

Angel's breath hitched in her chest. She had never seen this outside of the pictures, at least not in such quantities-- perhaps a glint of it in some woman's ear, shimmering above a frock-clad shoulder, or on the finger, a band so new it chafed and was not permitted to tarnish.

But the moment she saw it Angel knew that this was gold, and something, idealism maybe or her staunch refusal to relinquish the enthusiasm of childishness, believed in it.

She lifted one dulled disk and held it in her hand, hefting it. It didn't weigh as much as she had expected, and it was very cold. She twirled the disk in her hand, watching it shine as the dust flew away, and thought of what she could buy with this.

One solid coin, a month of AZT? Two? Angel didn't know the exact worth of gold, but she knew how much she would like having new clothes from the posh shops and good food. She remembered the look on Mark and Roger's faces when she presented them with cash on Christmas. It wasn't that they cared for money, at least not the money itself, but having it presented to them to do with as they would…

And with them, "would" meant "needed".

And what about Mimi? One number Angel did know was the cost of rehab.

But then, how had Mark and Roger used the money? Not to pay off Benny, certainly. No, they spent whatever money came their way on dinners at the Life or such things, occasionally a warm coat or spare blanket, but usually on frivolity and revelry, reducing themselves to scrimping and scraping to pay for Roger's medicine.

Angel had seen Mimi quit heroin twice. Both times, she had gone back to the habit within a fortnight, and Angel knew that it would only happen again with a rehab center. She needed a reason to stay off, and that was something money couldn't buy her.

As for Collins, if he knew that money existed he hid the knowledge well, working when he needed to and getting by on what he had without the outward appearance of spending, earning or ever having money at all.

The only reason to keep the money, the gold, the dusty fortune under the sink, was for herself. Angel frowned. She examined her chipping, bright blue nailpolish as she ran her nails down her skirt. The denim was worn nearly white in places. Even the embroidery floss was fading, the cheery bright sun with its spaghetti-noodle rays fading, dulling.

Angel looked up over the counter at her friends. Roger was lounging on the couch, balancing his guitar in his lap and using his pick to scratch his knee through a tear in his jeans. Mark was immersed in the explanation of something incoherent, his hands gesticulating wildly. Collins was offering a joint to Mimi.

"Thomas, don't let her smoke that, she's only nineteen!"

Roger giggled. "Thomas," he repeated, grinning.

"_Don't _get ideas," Collins warned him.

Roger pouted, and Mimi cuddled up nearer him. "You can call me anything you want, love," she cooed.

Roger raised his eyebrows. "I can call you Thomas?" he asked cheekily.

Mark groaned. "Please, no. The mental images… please…"

Angel smiled. "Hey, Collins," she said, "what would you do if you reached the end of the rainbow?"

"Date women."

Angel laughed with the others, and listened as Roger began to play his new song. He always fumbled after the first eight bars, but that never seemed to matter to anyone since they were _good_ bars, as lyrically naked as they were.

She pushed the pot of gold back, deep in the shadows and cobwebs under the sink, tucking it neatly behind the sagging U-bend pipe, and closed the doors.

THE END!


End file.
